Page 86 of Powerless

“Yes. And clearly quite a fragile one at that.”

Plagues, if I wasn’t already going to hell, I am now.

She sputters. Actually sputters. I’ve never seen her at such a loss for words before, and I must say, it’s very entertaining. “What the hell is wrong with you? Oh, so you think I’m fragile? I’ll show you just how fragile I—”

“There,” I say calmly, cutting her off mid-threat. “The first stitch is always the worst, especially with how blunt this needle is.”

She blinks, snapping her mouth shut when she looks down to see the needle I’ve pushed through the gash without her even realizing, too angry to feel the pain. Which was exactly what I was hoping for.

“You...you are—”

She’s sputtering again, so I kindly finish for her. “Intelligent? Irresistible?”

“Calculating, cocky, and a completely arrogant bastard,” she pants. “That is what I was going to say.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Good to see you’re feeling well enough to insult me.” I grab the needle again and pinch the skin around her wound closer together, preparing to make another stitch by the light of the fire.

“You distracted me,” she murmurs, as though she’s still taking in the information. Then she huffs out a laugh as she adds, “You distracted me by being an ass, but it worked nonetheless.”

I look up at her briefly before saying, “Yes, I was an ass. And I need you to know that I didn’t mean what I said.” I push the needle through her skin as I speak, using my words as another distraction, though she still lets out a small hiss of pain. “You’re no toy, let alone a delicate one.”

She watches me work, and I will myself not to melt under her burning gaze. “Tell me about home. About Loot,” I say, trying to take her mind off the needle piercing her skin.

“Loot wasn’t exactly a home to me.” She’s quiet, and I catch her chewing the inside of her cheek before she continues. “I had a home once. It was just me and my father, but...but we were happy.” She winces when I make another stitch, but her next words are as blunt as the needle. “And then he died, and my home became Adena. We made a living in Loot together. She made Loot worth living in.”

“How long have you lived on the streets?”

“Five years. I was thirteen when my father died, and ever since then, I’ve lived in a pile of garbage Adena generously called the Fort.” She laughs bitterly at that. “From ages thirteen to fifteen, the two of us were barely surviving. But then we grew up. We figured things out and fell into a routine that kept us fed and clothed. We each had our own skills that kept us alive.”

I let her words, her story, sink in. I wonder silently what had happened to her father, or her mother for that matter. “So, your father taught you to fight, then?” I ask curiously.

“Ever since I was a child. He knew my ability wasn’t one I could use physically, so he made sure I was never truly defenseless.” Her voice is shaky as I thread the needle through the deepest part of the wound. Her hand shoots up and grips my forearm, nails biting into my skin as she bites her tongue to keep from crying out in pain.

“And the dagger you like to wear on your thigh so much,” I clear my throat, “was that your fathers?”

“Yes, it is—it was.” Her laugh is strained. “I suppose you have him to thank for my violent tendencies.”

I glace up and grin before saying warily, “And your mother...? Do I have her to thank for any of your wonderful qualities?”

“Dead.” Her tone is flat. “She died of sickness shortly after I was born. I never knew her.” I’m reminded of Kitt and how his mother died in a similar manner, a tragedy the two of them share.

Her grip on my arm only tightens as I keep pushing the needle through her skin, slowly making my way to the end of the gash. Her eyes are squeezed shut against the pain, refusing to cry or even cry out.

So stubborn. So strong.

“Just a little more, Pae,” I breathe. She shudders and I don’t miss the movement. Whether because of the pain or because I finally said her name, I’m not sure. I’m reminded of when she hit the ground. When I was feral, frantic, and I suddenly aware that I hadn’t said her name to her since we met.

And in that moment, I realized that I’d wanted to say it—wanted her to hear it from my lips. Realized that if she died, I would never again get to look into those blue eyes and utter those two syllables that have been a constant in my mind.

So I said her name, again and again. I finally let myself do it. Let that last piece of attachment to her lock into place. Just saying her name felt intimate, personal, somehow.

And now I forever want her name on my lips and rolling off my tongue until I’m drunk on the taste and sound of it.

What the hell is wrong with me.

Her eyes find mine, sparkling like a body of water in the firelight. “Why are you doing this?”

Her gaze tells me that there’s no escaping the question this time, though I’m not even sure I have an answer for her or myself. All I know is that I have this urge to protect her, be with her, tease her, touch her.

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